He Can Only Hold Her
by rollingstonette
Summary: Underneath her cold, broken exterior lies a heart, beating and full of passion. She can't seem to forget him, but she also can't tear herself away from her past. OC/Weasley. 1st Person POV.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter. But, you knew that already. I do own the main character of this story though. I also do not own nor have any claim on Amy Winehouse's "He Can Only Hold Her."

It tickled. The grass, slightly overgrown, dipped into my face as I stared contentedly up at the clouds. Yellow seeds from the blades drifted slowly on to my face, awash in little, grass-seed freckles as the seemingly unreal cotton puffs floated majestically overhead. I watched, picking out animals in the clouds, dreading the moment when as the earth continued its rotation and the breeze continued its windy path the little animals became unrecognizable – white, wispy shapes unlike the cute bunnies, puppies and hippos of the minutes before.

Sighing, I sat up, my grass-seed freckles scattering on to my lap. Here, in the country-side, miles away from everything, I felt at peace. And bored. I drew my legs close to my body and rested my chin atop my knees. I wanted to get away – away from the city, away from my friends, away from everything – but life with only one bar of cell phone service drove me crazy. Brushing my legs off, I stood up, and grabbing my old 35 mm film camera, I made my way back to the small, whitewashed cottage.

Rocks crunched beneath my feet as I lazily traipsed my way down the well worn path. Near the edge of the path, peeking out from between the blanket of green blades, a lonely white flower seemed to shine, reveling in her dramatic appearance. In her silent reverie, she thoughtfully stared at the gravel, white petals slightly weighing her slim, green body down. Crouching down, I raised my camera to my eyes, and peering through viewfinder, I slowly turned the lenses until the delicate flower came into focus. Steadying my grip, I pressed down, anticipating the click of the camera. And as I waited between the sound of the shutter and the buzz of the film, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something flicker – a flash of gold, liquid, bright. Blinking, I ran my finger across the tiny gear of the camera, preparing my film for whenever I stumbled upon a new shot.

Slinging my camera over my shoulder, I stood up, mulling over that golden flicker. Shaking my bangs out of my eyes, I entertained fantastic ideas – golden dragon scales, perhaps! Or a leprechaun's pot of gold. Maybe, a phoenix tail or a witch's spell. Giggling to myself, I cracked a small smile as thought after thought popped into my head. At 18, I still had not out grown my fantasy world and I had no intention of growing out of it soon.

The path winded down the small hill I had donned as my cloud observatory. The cottage peeked out from behind two wilted rose bushes, smiling at its idyllic picket fence. Digging my hand into the pocket of my light yellow sundress, I fished out the front door key. Unlatching the gate, I swung the key around my fingers until I made it to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. Immediately, the coziness of the two room cottage greeted me. The patchwork quilt thrown over the rocking chair in front of the stone fireplace, the dirty pots and pans in the sink, the sun illuminating the specks of uneaten food I had let crust on the plates, the unmade bed smirking in the small bedroom off to the right, the vase of freshly picked sunflowers (my favorite). I could never keep house.

After grudgingly cleaning the cottage, I kicked my suitcase open and threw my clothes in, not caring how they fell. After all the menial, tedious jobs were done, I threw myself onto the unmade bed, too worn out in my lazy splendor to change out of the yellow cotton dress. Pressing my face into my pillow, I thought of that golden flash again, wondering what could have caused it. Before I could entertain my fantasy-themed thoughts, I drifted to sleep, warmly engulfed by the summer weather and light breeze wafting through the open window.

I awoke to the morning sun's lazy rays shining through the window and onto my face. Bleary eyed, I removed my glasses that I had fallen asleep with, rubbed my eyes, then replaced them to take in the cottage once more. Humming, I took the time to fix the cottage up, to where it seemed to dimly sparkle, changed my clothes, did the necessary hygienically mandated actions, and stepped out, dragging my suitcase behind. As I shut the door, I took a deep breath of the crisp, morning country air, enjoying the soft birdsong in the distance as I took my leave of such an idyllic place. As I walked to my car, I thought I saw the golden flash again, but when I turned round to discern it, it had disappeared. Just my luck. But I put it out of my mind as I got in, started the engine and began the drive home.

While Elliot Smith streamed out of my speakers, the country side streamed by me, green grass and trees a blur. Eventually, the green gave way to the occasional house, the occasional house became a stream of tan colored stores, and the tan gave way to the dull gray of urban life. Car horns replaced the sweet bird chirps, parking meters lined the street, not trees, and sky scrapers blocked out the steady stream of clouds. Home, sweet home.

Pulling up to my family's home, I smiled, somewhat sadly. Getting out of the car, the street seemed eerily quiet, almost bone-chillingly silent. As I walked up the concrete path to the door, I expected to hear my footsteps echo, thumping, pounding loudly in the deafening lack of noise, but I heard nothing. Not a sound, not a peep. Placing my hand upon the doorknob, I felt something cold coil up my hand towards my elbow, gently grasping the length. My stomach churned, and I could feel myself taking shallow breaths. Swallowing, I slowly turned the knob and let the door creak open.

Dark. No lights shined. The blinds covered the windows. Nothing seemed out of place, except for the quickly engulfing chill that wrapped around me. In movies, this would be the perfect time to yell at the ditzy heroine not to go in, but something drew me into the house. The cold, unseen tendrils seemed to pull at me, guiding me in, easing my steps.

I stopped three steps into the house, the only light coming from the open front door. The house looked perfect. Clean. Unlived in. Choking back my fear, I walked slowly into the kitchen, running my hands against the walls, feeling the texture on my palms, unwilling to turn a light on, lest it shine on something unwanted, something horrible. Ahead, the sunlight streamed through the cracks of the plastic blinds, lighting the floor in a pattern of horizontal, parallel stripes. My heart thumped, literally, in my throat as I crept around the corner into the kitchen.

The tiled room seemed to amplify the lack of warmth. The dust danced in the limited light from the blinds, slowly, twisting, hypnotically. My eyes, used to the dimly lit house, swiftly scanned the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Everything occupied its rightful residence – the toaster next to the coffee pot, which rested near the microwave, caddy corner to the fridge. The appliances looked unused, new, shining. I sniffed, realizing I had held my breath the whole time.

My nose met with the sweet smell of decay, mixed with the pungent aroma of old defecation. Gagging, I covered my nose and mouth with my hands. Then, in the dark, I noticed two slumped figures, propped up against the table. If not for the smell, it would have seemed as if these two had fallen asleep, taking a nap on the breakfast table.

In a small, muffled voice, I whispered, "Mom? Dad?" Afraid to let my voice rise any higher, I kept my hands over my mouth. Without my bidding, my feet took small cautious steps towards the figures. Slowly, I removed one hand, reached out and softly placed my hand on the shoulder. The figure, thrown off balance by the extra weight, wobbled and toppled out of the chair. The head lolled back, and it lay strewn on the floor.

Horrified, I glanced at the figure's face. Two wide eyes stared back at me, almost as in fear, the skin around the open mouth puckered, decay already gnawing away at the cheeks, lightly brushing across in a grotesque artful way. I backed away quickly, staring at the figure, whose knotted hair already had begun to fall out in clumps. In my haste, I hit the other figure's chair, and it toppled onto the floor as well. I stifled a scream as the bodies laid on the floor, contorted into horribly beautiful positions. The blank, wide eyes of my deceased mother and father watched after me one last time, as I spun around and ran out of the kitchen, holding back tears and choking on the stench.

Not heeding where I stepped or what I knocked into, I reached for my phone and, quivering, brought my fingers to dial 911. Somehow, I managed to press the numbers as I shook violently. Somehow, I managed to choke out the address from behind my tears. Somehow, I managed to hang on to my phone long enough to hear the voice of the operator dispatch the needed officials to the scene. Somehow, I had enough mind about me to hang up my phone. My grip slackened and the phone clattered to the ground.

I followed suit.

The police found me sprawled out on the floor, the tiles leaving red grooves on my cheeks, my arms, my legs – nearly anywhere bare skin met the tiled floor. One handed me a blanket and helped me prop myself up against a wall, while I could hear the others talking from the kitchen. Someone tutted, almost indifferent to the horror I had stumbled upon. Someone else mentioned, somewhat hushed, about a strain of similar cases, a strain of similarly stumping cases. A young cop, a rookie I guessed, sat down next to me, smiling warmly, thinking (I suppose) that I needed someone – and rightly so. Drawn to his warmth, drawn to this stranger's smile, drawn to his sad blue eyes, I braced my shoulder against his broad arm. Sorrow and the color blue: cliché, but my mind seemed to link them together, hand in hand.

He didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. Internally, I thanked the red-haired officer, not having the will nor the power to voice my gratitude. He didn't have to say anything, and I hoped that I, too, had no need to voice my turmoil. We stayed against the wall until the police packed up their kits and made to leave. He helped me to my feet, and with a grave smile, he turned away. A sergeant confronted me, filled me in on the crime scene, made no allusion to the string of similar scenes and assured me that the perpetrator would fall into the hands of the law.

"Keep your chin up, girl," his gravelly voice rumbled in my ears. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call up the station. Don't do anything rash or anything you might regret." His large hand patted the top of my head, he smiled and left with the group. I scanned the group for one last look at the red-haired rookie. His cerulean eyes caught my brown ones, the sadness, the sorrow, the loss radiating from the clear pools. I stared on, boldly, eliciting no emotion whatsoever. I just stared.

Countless visits to the psychiatrist and weeks later, I decided I needed a break. The shrink behind her desk stared at me from underneath her grizzled hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She smirked at me over her clasped hands and her grunts of "mmhmm" and "uh-huuuh" did nothing to quell my stirring emotions. I felt empty. I always felt empty. I never told her this whenever she asked me, "And, how does that make you feel?"

Stupid old hag. I paid her too much for those visits anyway. So, on my own, I decided that I would take some time off, visit a new place, immerse myself in some other place, other people, other atmosphere. I needed it.

Work took too much out of me: I lost the drive to turn in my stories, my photos. My friends seemed to give up on me, none of them able to fill the void that ate at my innards, my heart, my soul. They stopped visiting me, stopped calling, stopped texting me. I didn't care. I didn't need them. I just needed out, out of this town, out of this humdrum life. I needed a way to get away, away from the place that sheltered my parents' interred bodies. Away.

Silently, I purchased a ticket to London. I told no one what I had planned. I told my boss that I had decided to clear my mind, that I would return as soon as I could function again, as soon as I could capture the magic of people again. He seemed to understand, though he did not show any outward signs of support. I didn't need his support. I had received all the support I needed from that red-haired rookie. His smile never left my thoughts as I boarded the plane, as I endured the flight, as I arrived in England. My adventure had begun: I felt ready, reassured and independent, away from everything. I rolled my luggage out of the terminal, and into the gray streets of the famed city.

**Author's Note:** Hello! This is my very first fanfiction – even though it does not sound like a fanfiction story quite yet. The title is taken from Amy Winehouse's Back to Black album. If you know the song, you might see some of its influences later on in this baby story. I have no idea where this story will go – though I have some premonition as to how it will turn out! I have this bad habit of starting things and not finishing them, but I have already promised myself that if this story is well-received that I would continue it as much as my schedule would allow. So please, leave a review. Constructive criticism is also welcome – and flames, too, if you hate it that much. Thank you for reading this far!


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